The Forsworn
by Will Roberts
Summary: Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken.


Star Wars: The Clone Wars

The Forsworn

1

The master and his apprentice crept from their vantage point to glide to the edge of the treeline. Beyond lay only a heather, a waste; save one squat, ominous structure. It seemed as a ziggurat would, yet the sides of each outcropping were as smooth and dark as obsidian. "We should wait for the troops." The apprentice whispered. A slicing motion from the teacher's arm shushed the overzealous youngster; the master gazed at his forearm, punching in code on the wrist-mounted comlink. "What now?" The student inquired, eager as a pup. Another scythe-like gesture from his teacher quieted the learner. The master anguished for a bit, tossing strategies about his head. A small hand sign; roughly translated: _Forward, but stay in sight_. The Padawan understood the gesture, taking it as a test. Thus, the two glided through the dry brush, toward the ominous temple.

The pair of spies had already gone about the perimeter of the structure thrice, yet no entry was admitted. Soon, the learner began doubting the mission, and the learned began tensing, wary of a trap. The youth, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, proceeded to lean against the wall of the building. As if responding to his touch, the Earth began trembling underfoot. Then, a teeth-shearing grating of stone was audible, so loud that the youngster clapped his palms to his ears. Yet, the sound offered some relief, as a doorway was revealed. The younger of the two, unawares of the red flags flying, let an outcry escape his lips as the gate lifted, moaning. The learner prepped to start walking, albeit a bit cautiously, as was what his teacher would want. They glided forward, wary and certain of an ambush. Behind them, the entrance slammed shut. Lining the walls of the hallway were torches that spontaneously lit as the room darkened. Tensing even further, the duo drew the force around them, masking their emotions, and continued onward.

Deep in the bowels of the ziggurat, a horde of force-users waited to strike. Their head honcho had planned too well, taken too much time, for this… mission, to go awry. He was resting on a high stone seat, like a throne, fingering the hilt of his weapon. His eyebrows perked up; the enemy was close. A single word, not spoken, but thought, alerted his acolytes to retreat into the shadows. A grin, revealing a set of crookedly sharpened teeth, creased the man's face, highlighted by his intensely glowing eyes. The enemy was close. Very close.

The pair, learner and learned, crept briskly into the antechamber of the temple, lightsabers drawn but not ignited. In the epicenter of the room, a small altar was erected: on it, lay a Sith holocron, along with several random laser sword hilts. The duo crouched low, rushing to their unexpected prize. The Padawan reached out an unsteady hand, as if the datacron would vanish as he snatched it up. And, as was it's cue, the holocron shimmered, then dissipated. Along with the hilts, and the entire altar. Immediately thereafter, the room went deathly cold. But not any ordinary cold; it chilled the bone, it haunted the mind, it tortured the soul. The Master, finally and fully aware of the lethal machination he had thrust himself and his student into, ignited his lightsaber and his connection with the Force. Taking cue, the Padawan did likewise, albeit shivering a bit at the twisted turn of events. A voice, not human, nor like any other race the Jedi had encountered, reverberated off of the smooth circular walls of the chamber. "Very good." It intoned, yet the owner of said phrase couldn't be farther from pleased. As to compliment his words, a lightsaber, one which boasted a flat, dual edged blade, lit. The blade of the weapon was red, though considerably darker than others; it seemed to be coated in blood of countless slain enemies, and dripped with the crimson energy of all the victims' sins. More sabers, all red, but in varying shades, activated, until there were nearly a hundred. More than enough to fill the antechamber with a bloody evanescence. The pair of Jedi, lost for tactics or strategies, merely maintained a defensive posture.

At a single whisper from their master, the acolytes fell upon the two Jedi like wolves upon a lion. One dark apprentice collapsed in the dirt, cleft from shoulder to hip. The rest pounced at once, bashing down their prey in a storm of scarlet lightning, while their leader watched, seething with joy as the Jedi were murdered. So was his excitement, that an unearthly howl of shrieking laughter echoed above ever-waning screams of the dying.

At the Jedi Temple, the council was in emergency session. Unlike normal occurrences, raucous shouting could be heard from outside the durasteel doors. Every youngling, Padawan, and learner whipped about and rushed away from the chaos-filled hall. In the room itself, all was hushed at the chime of the comm. The doors opened with a sushi, admitting a messenger. "What is this?" Yoda asked harshly. "A message from Tython, my Lord." The deliverer of said news reported. A box, not of durasteel, but of plain, refined flimsiplast, was presented to the throng of members. Windu opened with a gesture, and levitated the contents of the package. Horrified, the Vaapad creator let the severed, transfixed heads of master and student of Legion 43 drop to the ground with a gut-churning thud. The expressions on their faces were ones of pure anguish and pain. In the council room, all fell silent as everyone in attendance bowed their heads to meditate. Finally, Ki-adi Mundi asked calmly, "The coordinates?" "Deep in the unexplored regions." The valet responded.


End file.
